This fic will not mention the fall, so it is up to you whether or not it happened.
Thank you for reading!
Enjoy! :)
The soft tapping of John's laptop keys echoed throughout the otherwise silent flat. He was writing up a case they had solved two days ago; Sherlock was lying on the couch, hands pressed to the front of his face so that, to anyone who didn't know him, he looked like he was praying. John knew better; he knew his friend was merely in his mind palace.
He had been surprised when Sherlock hadn't kicked him out of the room like he usually did when visiting the infamous mind palace. The great detective had merely pranced into the room, looked at John, glanced at the couch, thrown himself upon it, and acquired the familiar look on his face that signaled his departure from reality. That far-off glaze in the cold colorful eyes was normally the only thing John ever glimpsed of the mind palace. Smothering a chuckle, he looked away from Sherlock, glancing every once in a while at his friend when he flicked at imaginary things in front of him.
The afternoon faded into night in this peaceful manner. John had finished the post and closed his laptop when Sherlock inhaled sharply.
John looked at the detective as he blinked a few times, readjusting himself to reality.
"Sorry, did I distract you?"
"No. Dinner?" The smooth baritone voice was unusually rough; it sounded as though Sherlock had been asleep though John knew that wasn't the case.
"Only if you eat too."
Sherlock sighed before flinging himself off of the couch and grabbing his coat and scarf. John got up and reached for his jacket, though in a much less dramatic way than the detective, and was surprised when Sherlock helped him into it.
The two men descended the staircase and John alerted Mrs. Hudson of their departure while Sherlock got them a cab.
"You two have fun now!" She enthusiastically replied, winking at John. Too tired to stand up for his heterosexuality, he warily smiled at her before turning around and entering the cab.
The drive was silent; the two men stared out of their windows at the passing buildings. The cabbie winked at John as he paid, and he ignored the man and the jab at his sexuality once more, though irritation did flash through him a little at the gesture. They hadn't even done anything that suggested anything more than friendship between them, yet everyone they came across believed otherwise. It was positively aggravating.
Angelo's was almost empty when they entered and sat at the same table they did two years ago before Sherlock had dragged John across London and cured his psychosomatic limp. John smiled fondly at the memory before returning his attention to the menu.
Angelo bustled over to the pair.
"It's on the house as usual." He said as he reached for something on an empty table. Angelo winked at Sherlock and placed a candle between them. He patted John's shoulder and walked away to another table.
"What will you have?"
"Probably the pasta."
Sherlock slowly nodded, scanning over the menu though John was sure he knew the contents by heart. John put his back on the table, sipping his water as he glanced out of the window for leisure rather than surveillance. Sherlock placed his menu back on the table and signaled for Angelo to return to their table. He rushed to their table and asked them what they were ordering.
"I'll have the linguine, please."
"I'll have the linguine also."
"You're eating?"
"You asked me to, remember?"
"Yes, but I didn't think you would listen."
"I always listen to you." John wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he thought Sherlock sounded a bit offended.
Too shocked to respond, John looked out the window once more. Sherlock continued staring intensely at John until the doctor hesitantly met his eyes. He knew the detective was trying to deduce the meaning of his statement; however, Sherlock's inexperience with emotions resulted in confusion rather than answers.
Angelo backed away from their table, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The men didn't notice his departure.
Meanwhile, John smirked. He couldn't help it; seeing Sherlock look absolutely baffled was a nice change. John enjoyed their reversal of positions though Sherlock obviously didn't. He began glaring at the doctor. It was clear the detective desperately wanted to know what was going on, but he wouldn't stoop to ask for help. This made John's smirk grow wider.
"Always?" John prompted.
"Yes! I'm eating aren't I?"
"Then why do you never buy milk when I ask you to?"
"Boring." Sherlock replied.
"Exactly." John leaned back into his seat and laughed.
Sherlock continued to look confused, though at the sound of John's laughter he looked frustrated and pleased at the same time.
Angelo placed their food in front of them, John still laughing. Sherlock grabbed his fork and began angrily eating the pasta. The loud clink of the fork against the plate fueled John's laughter. Something snapped in Sherlock, and he started chuckling.
Five minutes later, they had calmed down, though only because everyone in the restaurant was staring at them. A comfortable silence encompassed them as they ate their food.
They finished their meals without saying another word. Once the men were done, they got up and began to put their coats on. Sherlock helped John into his once more, causing Angelo to victoriously smirk at them.
Instead of getting a cab, the men walked back to the flat. They walked in sync, Sherlock's shoulder occasionally brushing John's.
"I do listen to you."
"I know you do; you just don't listen to everything I tell you. That was all I was saying."
"You didn't refute anyone today."
"What?"
"There were three instances today where people implied that we were a couple and you didn't bat an eyelash."
"I gave up trying to correct everyone. People will talk whether I say anything or not; I figured I might as well not waste my breath."
"They'll do little else."
John chuckled and Sherlock grinned. He followed the detective up the stairs and into the flat. They took their coats off and hung them beside the door.
"Goodnight Sherlock."
John turned to leave as Sherlock began to walk to his room. Their arms brushed as they went to their bedrooms. Just as John was about to begin walking up the stairs, he heard a low voice murmur:
"Goodnight John."
Smiling, the doctor continued up to his room and began getting ready to go to sleep.
As he slipped under the covers, John heard soft violin music. It was a soothing melody, one John was unaccustomed to hearing Sherlock play. He smiled and closed his eyes and allowed the lullaby to lull him to sleep.
The sound of gunshots tore John awake. He sprinted down from his room, bursting into their flat only to find Sherlock on the couch with his gun pointed at the wall. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he began shooting at the smiley face once more.
"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed. Sherlock lazily looked up at the enraged doctor.
"Bored."
"That doesn't mean you can shoot the wall again!"
"I need a case." Sherlock whined as he rose from the couch.
"It's only been three days since your last one!"
"I am bored!"
"Relax, there will be a new case soon."
"Relax! Dull."
John sighed and looked at the paper, scanning for something interesting. When he saw nothing worth reading, he sat down in his chair. He would never admit it aloud, but John was equally bored.
Sherlock's phone rang, an answer to John's silent plea, and the detective began speaking in a bored tone that didn't betray his excited appearance.
"Sherlock Holmes."
The detective's face lit up, obviously a case, as John heard a muffled voice reply.
"We'll be there shortly."
John watched as Sherlock hung up the phone, grinning wildly as he pulled his coat and scarf on. He stood at the doorway, staring at John.
"Coming?"
The doctor stood from his seat and put his coat on, Sherlock helping him once again. The detective sped down the stairs, the doctor fast on his heels as Sherlock hailed a cab. His face was apathetic once more, though John could still see the small twinkle of excitement in Sherlock's eyes as he looked straight ahead. John looked away from his flat mate, meeting the disgusted gaze of the cabbie before looking out the window.
Why was everyone so infatuated with the idea that he was gay?
Anderson sneered at Sherlock and John as they walked in, though Sally was nowhere to be found. Momentarily puzzled, John looked for her before turning his attention back to the detective as Lestrade rushed up to them.
"What is it Lestrade?" The detective demanded, his cold gaze washing over the DI.
"You're going to want to see it for yourselves first."
They followed Greg inside the building and into a room that reeked of blood though there was none present. They looked down at the mangled corpse, and John wanted to vomit.
Being an army doctor, he had a strong stomach; however, there were some things that could still bring bile to his throat. The dead body in front of the army doctor was naked and mangled; it reminded John of an old chew toy though no blood leaked from the various wounds.
Sherlock knelt beside the decapitated corpse. The head was in a corner, tiny trickles of blood oozing from the neck. John thought it was odd that the only visible blood was in the head but not the body.
John turned his attention to the naked corpse. There was no blood to be seen from where the head was removed from the body.
"Have any ideas?"
"A few."
"What are they?" Greg inquired, sounding both hopeful and disgusted.
"The body appears to have been drained of blood, although lab results will probably show some coagulated remains. It doesn't appear to be something performed by a cult; they would've left evidence of a ritual. Appears to have been a single murderer; if there were multiple people inflicting damage on the body, the wounds would look differently depending on hand size, strength, positioning, etc. Judging from the wounds, the murderer appears to be a man in his late thirties. Some parts of the body appear to have been squeezed, so whoever was murdering this woman wanted her blood. But why would the murderer decapitate someone just to get some blood?"
"Revenge?" John suggested, speaking up for the first time since they arrived.
"If it were for revenge, the murderer wouldn't have chopped the head off first. The murderer would've wanted to make them suffer."
John stood in silence, equally puzzled. Lestrade looked as though he was going to vomit, while Sherlock maintained his apathetic appearance though his tone revealed his curiosity.
The detective suddenly turned around and left the room, Lestrade quickly following. John stood for a minute longer, pondering the strange murder.
"Come along John!" Sherlock demanded. John sighed and left the horrific room.
The men exited the crime scene, Sherlock smirking when they walked past a vomiting Anderson.